


faced with a choice (try to ignore them)

by shineyma



Series: faced with a choice [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hydra Grant Ward, Season/Series 02, Undercover Jemma Simmons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23146441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Hydra's captured a high-value target, but it's not at all the one Jemma expects.
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Series: faced with a choice [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931932
Comments: 34
Kudos: 160





	faced with a choice (try to ignore them)

**Author's Note:**

> TA-DA! WEEK ELEVEN, Y'ALL!
> 
> This one fought me HARD, which is probably because my week was long, stressful, and emotionally/mentally exhausting. All of which is to say I hate this THE MOST, but it's five thousand words and I spent all day writing it, so...you know...I'm not writing anything else. Take it away, I quit.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! ~~Especially with this one. Seriously. I cannot accept criticism here.~~ <3

There’s a certain art to undercover work, Jemma’s discovered. Lying and doing evil in the name of maintaining the cover, those are the easy parts. The true challenge comes in the balancing act between paying attention and feigning indifference, appearing detached while in truth filing away any potential point of interest.

After all, when intelligence starts leaking, the first to be suspected are those who displayed particular curiosity in the matter—and the clearer it becomes that a mole has infiltrated the operation, the more suspicion an innocent question will raise.

All of which means that as the months pass, Jemma’s greatest shield and greatest challenge are the same: the cover she’s cultivated as a detached genius, focusing only on her science and barely paying attention to even the names of her colleagues. It protects her from the scrutinizing eyes of her superiors (Simmons didn’t even notice when the woman who shared her lab bench was shot in the middle of the workday, she can’t _possibly_ be the mole) but also serves as an obstacle in gathering any useful intel.

As such, it’s always something of a (worrying) blessing when events cause enough of a stir to disturb her routine. When she returns from lunch to find the lifts blocked by a group of chattering, gossiping scientists, her heart leaps.

Not that she allows it to show, of course. “Do you _mind_? Some of us have work to do.”

“Sorry, Simmons,” Rikard says, shifting hastily aside. “Just waiting for a look, you know.”

Ansell either missed the exchange or is ignoring it; either way, he doesn’t move, leaving the button to summon the lift still thoroughly blocked. It’s an excellent excuse to engage further.

“A look at what?” she asks, feigning impatience. “Mr. Bakshi’s face as he terminates you for dallying?”

“Chill, Simmons.” Garcia rolls her eyes. “Lunch isn’t even officially over yet. No one’s gonna get shot over five minutes.”

Jemma casts a deliberate, thoughtful look at the nearest guard’s sidearm. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

“Come on,” Fulton says, giving her a friendly nudge. “Aren’t you even a _little_ curious?”

“Yes,” she says, “about the test I left to run while I ate. I’d like a look at the results sometime _today_.” She crosses her arms and regards her gathered colleagues with a scowl. “What are you lot even doing?”

“Waiting for a look, like I said,” Rikard explains unhelpfully.

Surely there’s been enough discussion to justify an expression of interest on Jemma’s part. “A look at _what_ , precisely?”

“The prisoner,” Garcia says with disturbing enthusiasm. “Fulton heard from Michaels, who heard from one of the field teams, that there was a high-value capture this morning. Whoever it is, they’re bringing ‘em in any minute now.”

Jemma’s heart leaps again—right into her throat. A high-value capture almost certainly means a member of the team. Who but a high-ranking SHIELD agent could cause such a stir?

For a moment, her mind stutters in her panic. She discreetly pinches the inside of her arm, letting the pain sharpen her focus. They planned for this, she and Coulson and May. She’s provided no end of detail about the building, the guard shifts, and the security; they’ll be ready for this. All she needs to do is find out where the prisoner is being kept and pass that along, and the team will do the rest. Her cover will remain secure and whoever of the team has been captured will be rescued in short order.

Still, it never hurts to reinforce her act.

“And which one is Fulton, again?” she asks, scanning the gathered scientist.

“I am,” Fulton says, exchanging an eye roll with Garcia.

“Ah,” Jemma says, offering no apology for the (deliberate) faux pas. “In that case—”

“They’re coming!” Ansell suddenly snaps, and lunges for the lift buttons.

Sure enough, a fleet of SUVs has arrived at the curb outside, and an alarming number of guards are pouring out of them. Jemma’s heart trembles at the implied importance of the prisoner—surely they haven’t caught _Coulson_?—but she’s careful to keep any emotion besides impatience off her face.

By the time the prisoner escort team enters the lobby, Jemma’s colleagues have collected themselves and begun to feign disinterest (with varying degrees of success). They look, as a whole, quite suspicious.

Jemma checks her watch and sighs. Her glance up at the passing group is perfectly casual, nothing at all like the craning necks of the people around her.

It’s a good thing she’s had such practice controlling her expression of late, because the prisoner isn’t Coulson. In fact, the prisoner isn’t a SHIELD agent at all.

He’s a little boy.

“A kid?” Fulton asks in a disappointed undertone.

“Maybe he’s powered,” Garcia speculates, studying the guard escort.

Jemma should make a cutting comment here, something to underline that they’ve wasted all of their time as well as hers, but absolutely nothing is coming to mind. Which is just as well, as she couldn’t possibly trust her voice. Not with the horror that’s swamped her so thoroughly at the sight of the shouting, struggling boy being carried between two hulking brutes.

She recognizes him. She believes she’d recognize him even if she’d never seen a single photo of him. The face, the coloring, even the expression of determined anger hiding fear—he looks so exactly like his father.

Hydra has captured Ward’s son.

Hell.

As her mind reels, Bakshi—who entered the lobby on the heels of the guard group—slows to regard them.

“Is there a problem with your lab?” he asks archly.

Somehow, miraculously, she finds the presence of mind to give him a dry look in return. She’s been campaigning for a private lab for months, complaining of her colleagues’ incompetence and annoying habits. Her expression plainly implies that there _is_ a problem: the people around her.

Bakshi smiles tightly. “Besides that, Miss Simmons.” He examines the group. “Well? I’m waiting.”

She pinches the inside of her arm again and forcefully puts aside her horror. This is an opportunity; she mustn’t waste it in her distraction.

“Someone—Frankel?—has been gossiping,” she says. “My colleagues were aware there was a high-value prisoner arriving, and decided to delay our return to the lab to get a glimpse.”

Self-preservation _should_ keep said colleagues from commenting further, but of course, if they had any sense of self-preservation, they wouldn’t have chosen to hang about the lobby like ninnies in the first place. As expected, Garcia pushes it.

“We were just curious,” she says defensively. “Weren’t expecting all that fuss for a _kid_ , though. Sir.”

Bakshi doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Miss Simmons, with me. Mr. Fulton, wait for me in my office. The rest of you, return to your work. _Immediately_.”

The others scramble to obey—Fulton with a terrified, angry glance at Jemma; she does feel a bit bad about that—and Jemma falls into step with Bakshi.

“Is this about my request for a private lab?” she asks hopefully.

“No,” Bakshi says. “I presume you recognized the child?”

…Oh dear.

“I did,” she admits. “That was Grant Ward’s son, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” he confirms. “John or Jack or something of the sort, I believe?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” she lies. “Ward never spoke of him often and, well…”

“Yes, I’m aware of your difficulty with names,” he says dryly. “No matter; the name is irrelevant. As you know, Ward has been a thorn in our side for the last year—he’s stolen personnel, destroyed millions of dollars in property, and ruined more operations than SHIELD and the Avengers combined.”

For lack of a better response, she hums in acknowledgement. It’s true; if the team hoped that killing Garrett at Cybertek would end the threat of Centipede, they were sorely disappointed. Far from surrendering at his mentor’s death, Ward has expanded Centipede’s operations beyond measure. It’s arguably a greater threat than Hydra at this point.

“You intend to use the boy against him?” she asks.

“If we can,” Bakshi says. “If not…”

Jemma waits, but it doesn’t appear he intends to finish the sentence without prompting. “If not, sir?”

They’ve followed the guards (and the increasingly frantic child) into a secure lift, one that requires Bakshi’s authorization to activate. As he presses his thumb to the pad, he gives Jemma a thin smile.

“You indicated during your interview that you desired revenge against Ward for the death of your partner,” he says, and extends a hand towards Ward’s son. “Here’s your opportunity.”

Jemma takes in a slow breath, forcing her heart to harden as the boy stills.

“My dad’s gonna kill you all,” he says, voice trembling.

“He’ll certainly try,” Bakshi tells him. “However, receiving you piece by piece over the next few months should keep him thoroughly distracted, don’t you think?”

That little face—so like Ward’s—drains of color, but his expression remains set. He’s determined not to show his fear. In the back of Jemma’s mind, she can hear Ward, the laugh in his voice as he said _He wants to be the next Captain America_ one night over drinks.

Perhaps that was a lie, as so many things Ward said were. But she can see the bravery he spoke of—the courage previously aimed only at worryingly high trees and imaginary enemy agents, now turned against true monsters.

“Yes,” she says, mouth dry. “That should do very nicely.”

The lift dings and the doors open. Jemma trails Bakshi and the guards into the detention area, mind racing. She could always follow the original plan—pass the location on to Coulson and let the team do the rest. They’d act just as swiftly to rescue an innocent child as they would one of their own, regardless of the crimes of the child’s father.

But that would take _time_. Time a SHIELD agent would survive and a little boy might not. Time that _Jemma_ would be expected to spend torturing said little boy.

They reach the end of the corridor, and the guard in the lead opens a cell door. It’s a visual she’s feared for months, forever dreading her own exposure, and it reminds her of her exit strategy.

A plan begins to take shape.

“Miss Simmons?” Bakshi asks as she pauses.

“I’d like to retrieve something from my lab,” she says. “A compound I’ve been working on for some time. I’ve been hoping for a test subject—I believe we’ve discussed the Phobos serum?”

“We have,” Bakshi agrees, expression clearing. “Excellent choice, Miss Simmons.” He motions to the guards. “We’ll leave John here to think about what’s coming.” He pats the poor boy on the cheek and nearly loses a finger to the child’s attempt to bite him. “Enjoy your last few minutes of peace, Mr. Ward.”

“You’re gonna be sorry,” the boy threatens. He’s shaking. Jemma bites her tongue.

“No,” Bakshi says calmly. “I’m not. After you, Miss Simmons.”

It takes all of her focus not to do any shaking of her own as she leads the way back to the lift.

She notes on the way up that Bakshi doesn’t need to authorize it this time—it’s the detention level that’s secure, then, not the lift itself. And it doesn’t need his presence, either, just the initial activation: after a brief stop in the lab, Bakshi scans his thumbprint to authorize the lift again before ducking back out, excusing himself to go deal with Fulton.

Jemma returns to the detention level alone. There are plenty of guards in the corridor, of course, and one on either side of the child’s cell, but none to specifically accompany her.

It’s more than a relief. An empty lift provides precisely the opportunity she needs to make her plan work.

The child scrambles to his feet when she reaches his cell. He lifts his chin, looking so like Ward that she nearly flinches.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he says, voice thick with suppressed tears.

“Good,” Jemma says, and opens the case she retrieved from the lab. Inside, a row of syringes waits. None of them contain the Phobos serum she mentioned to Bakshi—as it happens, no such serum exists. This is something else entirely. “You shouldn’t be.”

So saying, she drops a syringe and stomps on it. The guards startle, but the compound she’s released is spreading rapidly, activated by the contact with oxygen. In moments, Jemma—having discreetly injected herself with the antidote whilst alone in the lift—is the only conscious person on the entire detention level.

Somewhere in the building, alarms will be going off. The guards monitoring the security footage will spread the word, and the force of Hydra’s anger will be gathering to crush Jemma under its fist.

There’s no time to waste.

“Here we are,” she says to herself, retrieving the keys from the nearest guard’s belt. It’s a moment’s work to unlock the cell and gather up the boy— _Gary_ , she lets herself think now. His name is Gary, he’s eight years old, and if anything Ward said was true, he loves reading and hates maths. Last year, he broke his arm in three places falling out of a tree at the Treehouse; Ward took a week off to go see him and returned saying they’d have to transfer him to the Sandbox if they wanted to keep it from happening again, as Gary was sure he’d determined where he’d gone wrong and had no intention of keeping his feet on the ground once he healed.

She wonders, irrelevantly, whether Ward’s hidden Centipede base has any trees.

“Up you get,” she says to the unconscious Gary as she lifts him. He’s heavier than she expected, but her terror gives her strength; she settles him on her back and races for the lift.

Part of her fears it won’t work, that it can be shut down remotely—but if it can, they haven’t done so yet, and when she hits the button for the garage level, it lurches immediately into motion.

“We’re okay,” she says to herself. “Everything’s fine. This will all work out.”

She’s a much better liar than she used to be; she sounds quite convincing.

Another syringe, dropped as the lift doors begin to open, takes care of the guards on the garage level. She grabs a key—helpfully hanging in a box next to the lift—clicks the fob to determine which car it belongs to, and runs across the garage to it.

Alarms start blaring as she drops Gary in the passenger seat; by the time she’s scrambled around to the driver’s side, lights are flashing and the barrier on the garage exit is beginning to lower.

“Oh no,” she—admittedly, somewhat _squeaks_ —as she turns the key in the ignition. “Oh no, oh no, oh no—”

It accomplishes nothing, but she can’t quite stop herself from chanting it as she squeals out of the parking space. Her mind runs calculations automatically, comparing the speed of the lowering gate to the car’s acceleration, considering the force with which the gate will descend upon the roof of the car and the likely result—

“Hail Hydra,” she mutters, and floors it.

The car jolts as the barrier strikes the rear bumper, but they’re through, they’ve made it, and she breathes for the first time in at least three minutes as she rounds the corner.

“That’s not the end of it, of course,” she informs the still-unconscious Gary. “This is a company vehicle; no doubt they’ll be able to track it. We’ll need a new one. And a phone. And a number to call.”

She _could_ call the team, of course, but…

Ward is evil. He’s no fit parent for _anyone_. Left unchecked, he’ll no doubt twist this brave little boy into a monster just like him. The right thing to do, surely, is to rescue Gary from his father, now that she’s rescued him from Hydra. Bring him to SHIELD, see him resettled with _decent_ people, some nice couple who will raise him to be good.

It’s what she should do.

Perhaps she’s been twisted herself, changed by her time in Hydra, because she never seriously considers it. From the first, her intention is to return Gary to Ward.

“We’ll also need a way to do that without affording him the opportunity to capture and/or kill me,” she adds.

Gary, still unconscious, offers no suggestions.

“No,” she says, sighing. “I can’t think of any, either.”

\---

Two hours, two stolen cars, and a pick-pocketed mobile phone later, Gary finally regains consciousness.

“Whuh?” he slurs, blinking blearily at Jemma. “Whuh hap— _you_!”

“It’s all right,” she says, as he jerks away. He bangs his head against the window as he does so; she winces. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Yeah, right,” he scowls. “Like I’m gonna believe a Hydra lady about _anything_.”

He says Hydra as though it’s a bad word; she wonders distantly just how much he knows about what his father does for a living.

“It’s true,” she says, “you should never believe a word that comes out of a Hydra agent’s mouth. As it happens, however, I’m not Hydra.”

Gary’s eyes move from her face to the logo on her shoulder and back again. He raises a silent, skeptical eyebrow.

Lord, does he look like his father.

“I was undercover,” she says. Her hands are stiff on the wheel; she forces herself to loosen her grip. “But while I was willing to do quite a lot to gather intel, torturing a child is far beyond my limits. I broke my cover and got you out.”

Gary doesn’t look convinced. “That jerkface said you wanted revenge against my dad. He said he killed your partner.”

Ah, yes. That.

“My partner is alive,” she says. “Hydra hates your father and suspected me because of my past association with him; I lied to convince them I hated him.”

“Past association?” he echoes suspiciously. “What’s that mean?”

Very little that she can explain to a child.

“We used to be friends,” she decides upon. “He saved my life last year—I owed him a favor. Saving you allows me to repay him.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he asks.

Jemma might be irritated by his intractability, were it not for the fear she can still see so clearly behind his suspicion. She wonders—not for the first time—just how he was captured in the first place. Ward is very security conscious, and she doesn’t doubt he keeps a close eye on his son. How then did Hydra get their hands on him?

Perhaps he was betrayed. Perhaps a trusted friend—a trusted protector—handed Gary right over to Bakshi and his thugs.

She might call it fitting, were it not so awful.

“Because I know that your name is Gary, not John,” she says, putting those thoughts aside. “I know that your mother’s name was Catherine, that your favorite color is green, and that when your father grounded you by confiscating your favorite book, you used his credit card to buy an eBook version off of Amazon within the hour.”

Gary’s face relaxes as she speaks; at the last, he actually sighs. “He’s _never_ gonna let that go, is he?”

“No,” she says, smiling, “I don’t believe he will. It was an impressive amount of nerve you showed.”

“I was in the middle of a chapter!” he defends, and then hesitates. “You’re really saving me?”

“I’m really saving you,” she promises.

“Okay,” he says, and she can practically _see_ the weight of his terror fall away. He draws in a shaking breath. “Okay. Cool. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she says.

“Where are we?” he asks, leaning forward to peer out the windshield. “And how’d you get me out, anyway?”

“I used a variant of something called dendrotoxin to knock everyone unconscious,” she says, “including you. Speaking of which, you must be thirsty. There’s a water bottle in the door there for you.”

“Thanks,” he says, and sensibly checks the cap before opening it. “Denny-what?”

“Den-dro-toxin,” she repeats, sounding it out slowly for him. “It’s a neurotoxin mambas use to paralyze and kill their prey. I’ve spent years weaponizing it; it incapacitates an opponent quite effectively.”

Gary appears to consider this seriously. “Awesome. Does my dad know about this?”

“He does,” Jemma says evenly. Far too well, she fears. “And speaking of your father, we should get you back to him.”

“Yes, please,” he says eagerly.

“Here,” she says, handing him her stolen mobile. “Call him; tell him you’ve been rescued and that he can pick you up at the park at South Warren and Ivy.”

“South Warren and Ivy,” he repeats as he dials. “But why not just go straight to Nemesis?”

Fortunately, she’s had time to come up with an excuse—she doesn’t think the news that she’s a SHIELD agent would sit well with a child raised by Grant Ward. Especially not one named after John Garrett.

“I’ve done my best to shake Hydra, but they still may well be on our tail,” she says. “I don’t want to lead them straight there.”

“Right,” he says, and then, “Dad!—No, no, I’m okay!—Yeah, one of your friends rescued me! She said we can meet at the park at South Warren and Ivy.—Uh, I dunno.” He lowers the mobile a bit. “When?”

“We’ll be there in about five minutes,” she says.

“Five minutes,” Gary repeats. “Uh huh.—Yeah.—No, she’s nice.—Okay.—Love you, too.” He lowers the mobile again. “Dad says he’ll be here in an hour and that he wants me to stay on the phone the whole time.”

“Well, you certainly can if you like,” Jemma says, “but I thought you might be hungry. There’s a hot dog cart at the park.”

“Can I talk with my mouth full?” Gary asks his father. “There’s a hot dog cart at the park.” He rolls his eyes to whatever Ward says in response. “Daaaaaad.—Fine.—I mean, yes, sir.” He looks at Jemma. “You hafta give me the money so I can buy my own hot dog.”

“That’s perfectly sensible,” she says calmly, although her stomach is twisting into knots. It’s obvious Ward is suspicious of the circumstances; no doubt he thinks this is some sort of trap. Despite her hopes, it’s looking less and less likely that she’ll be able to escape without being captured herself.

“She says it’s perfectly sensible,” he reports. “Uh huh.—Okay.—His name was Bakshi. He was mean.—No.—Dunno, I was knocked out.”

From the sound of things, Ward keeps up a steady stream of questions for the next hour. Gary does end up talking with his mouth full; the questions don’t let up even as he’s inhaling two hot dogs, fries, and a large Coke.

After forty-five minutes, Jemma stands.

“I’m just going to run to the ladies’ room,” she stage whispers to Gary. “You keep talking.”

“’Kay,” he says cheerfully, and then, “Thirteen. No, wait, fourteen!” to his father.

There’s a nice crowd in the park—as to be expected of a nice summer day like this—and it’s easy for Jemma to get lost in it. She doesn’t dare leave before Gary is reunited with Ward (the chance Hydra is lingering in the wings is too great), but hopefully she’ll be able to get a good vantage point, far enough to watch without being spotted. As long as she can run before Ward sees her, she should be all right.

Of course, she’ll have quite a lot of explaining to do once she reaches the Playground, but Coulson will understand, she’s certain. And Fitz will be relieved to be able to leave—he’s been on effective lockdown since she had to claim he was dead. And, one hopes, relief at her safe return will distract the team somewhat from the exact circumstances.

With those comforting thoughts in mind, Jemma watches from the opposite end of the park as Ward arrives—flanked, as always, by his second, Ben Markham. Gary’s shout when he spots them is loud enough for her to hear even so far away, and watching him sprint into his father’s arms is enough to lighten her heart a little.

Regardless of the trouble she may be in with SHIELD, she knows she did the right thing.

That settled, she turns to go—

—and walks right into Luis Ortilla, one of Ward’s most dangerous men.

Jemma swears.

“Language, Doctor Simmons,” Ortilla scolds. “There’s kids around, you know.”

“No,” she says flatly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Uh huh.” He extends an arm. “Boss wants to talk to you.”

Jemma looks across the park to see Ward still on his knees with Gary in his arms.

“He looks busy,” she says. “Another time, maybe?”

“Don’t think so,” Candice Aldridge says, popping up out of nowhere. “C’mon, doc.”

Thus cornered, Jemma has no choice but to follow them back across the park. Ward is standing by the time they arrive, albeit with a tight grip on Gary’s hand.

“Simmons,” he says. “Can’t say you’re the _friend_ I was expecting.”

Every response that comes to mind is cutting and/or rude. As she doesn’t want to scar Gary any further than he has been, she settles for a shrug.

Ward regards her for a long minute. “Undercover in Hydra, huh? Things are even worse than I thought.”

“Someone had to do it,” she says flatly. “And as our would-be first choice was _unavailable_ …”

Unavailable because he was too busy being a _murderous traitor_ , it should go without saying. Perhaps her tone doesn’t communicate that effectively, however, because Ward only smiles at what she meant to be an implied insult.

“I’m impressed,” he says, and tugs Gary a little closer to himself. “And appreciative. Thank you, Jemma.”

She wants desperately to tell him she didn’t do it for him, but limits herself to a smile aimed at his son instead. “You’re welcome. Now, I really should be going.”

Aldridge’s arm—linked through hers on the way over—tightens. So does Ward’s smile.

“What’s the rush?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Gary pipes up, “aren’t you coming home with us?”

A chill crawls down Jemma’s spine at the innocent question.

“No, dear,” she says, “I’m afraid not. I’ve been away from my team for nearly six months, you know—it’s time I returned to them.”

“Six months?” Ward whistles. “I’m impressed.”

“You should be,” she says before she can stop herself, and tugs her arm out of Aldridge’s. “Now—”

“ _Now_ ,” Ward says, closing the distance between them with one large step, “you’re gonna come with us and tell me everything you know about the _suicidal jackass_ who took my son.”

Jemma has to look away from the fury in his eyes. She refuses to let herself be intimidated by him, but—well. He always has been frightening, even if he never used to turn it against her.

Gary, she sees, is looking between them with a furrowed brow—and she’s not the only one who’s noticed.

“Hey, Gary,” Markham says suddenly. “There’s an ice cream truck near the parking lot. You want some?”

“Yes!” Gary cheers, and tugs on Ward’s hand. “Dad! Ice cream!”

“You go ahead, buddy,” Ward says, smiling down at him. It transforms his face, turning him from terrifying traitor to the friend she once considered him in barely a blink. “We’ll catch up.”

Gary appears disappointed, but he doesn’t let it stop him from tearing away, Markham and Ortilla keeping pace.

“I’m not saving you any,” he calls over his shoulder as he goes.

“Yeah, you are!” Ward shouts after him.

He’s still smiling as he turns back to Jemma, and she—freed of the need to behave in front of his son—shoves him away.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, you berk,” she snaps.

“You are,” he asserts calmly. “You’re gonna come with me, you’re gonna tell me everything, and then—well, then we’ll see.”

“See _what_?” she demands.

“You saved my son’s life,” he reminds her. “ _And_ blew a cover six months in the making in the process. I owe you one, Jemma—and I don’t like having that hanging over my head.”

He steps in close again, catching her by the arm before she can retreat.

“I’ll have to work out a way to pay you back,” he says, voice low and intimate—as intimate as the hand that comes up to cradle her cheek. As intimate as he was that night in Madrid, when a friendly dinner turned into drinks turned into…

Incensed as much by her own reaction as by his nerve, she tells her stuttering heart to stuff it as it he leans in. Then she slaps him. (Aldridge, lingering behind her, stifles a laugh.)

“That,” Jemma says, voice shaking, “is _never_ going to happen.”

“Never gonna happen _again_ , you mean,” he offers smugly.

“Never. Going. To. Happen,” she bites out.

Ward laughs. “We’ll see.”

“No,” she says, “we really, truly won’t.”

Despite her conviction—he’s _evil_ , for goodness sake, he _runs Centipede_ —she’s tempted. She spent all of last year in hopeless love with him, and that initial attraction has never waned, regardless of his crimes. She’s never been able to forget that night.

By his smile, she thinks he knows it.

“We’ll see,” he says again, and then, slinging an arm around her shoulders, turns her in the direction Gary and the others went. “You know, I’ve been thinking lately that what Gary really needs is a new mom.”

“Oh, boy,” Aldridge mutters, and hurries past them.

“I _will_ shoot you in the face,” Jemma threatens.

“No, you won’t,” he says smugly. “You don’t wanna upset my son, do you?”

Damn him. “I’m not bloody marrying you, Ward.”

“Not yet,” he says, “but give me time.” He squeezes her close and laughs when she elbows him in the ribs. “I won you over once, remember?”

All too well, unfortunately.

Also unfortunately, Gary is racing towards them, chocolate smeared over half his beaming face, and Jemma can’t help but smile back. It’s almost impossible to believe that mere hours ago, he was trembling and trying not to cry. How could she not be charmed by his resilience?

Ward’s arm is still firmly around her shoulders.

“And this time,” he murmurs in her ear, “I’ve got my best asset to help me out.” He kisses her temple. “You really gonna say no to that face?”

Jemma, she thinks, is in quite a lot of trouble.


End file.
